


A Walking Shadow

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Sharpe - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-22
Updated: 2004-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 07:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1640201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harper's not sleeping. Set during Sharpe's Regiment, movie canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Walking Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Written for shrift

 

 

Harper rolls over again, and covers his eyes with his hand.

It feels as though it has been days since he's slept, days since he closed his eyes to the bleakness of camp and had it disappear. The tent is too loud, too bright for rest; the camp too foreign to be comfortable. He has been too long apart from the relative peace of training, and he no longer thinks he can fall in to that routine. Beneath his eyelids his thoughts are of Spain, and war, and home, but he cannot even sleep to dream of them.

That Sharpe is nearby is small comfort-- it was Sharpe who brought them here, Sharpe who put them through this. Harper knows he can't blame him, because it's his regiment, his family, too, but it is not Sharpe who has to suffer for it. They have both been through much, and Harper can endure this, but never did he expect he would have to go through this humiliation twice.

Harper did not expect much of what this war has brought him.

* * *

"Pat-- _Paddy_ , wake up."

Harper grunts, and scrubs his hand across his eyes. "I am, I'm awake." He sits up. The tent is still oddly bright, but not from daylight; it is hours yet till dawn, and the camp is still asleep. He looks at Sharpe. "What is it?"

Sharpe is huddled up on one side, turned towards Harper. Harper can see the faint outline of a smile on his lips-- Harper cannot imagine there is much to smile about. Sharpe says nothing.

Harper lies back. There is muted yelling somewhere in the camp, but it sounds far away-- not just in distance, but in effect, as though it cannot touch him.

"I saw Lady Jane today," Sharpe says abruptly, his voice little more than a whisper.

Harper looks at him from the corner of his eye. "Lady Jane? Did you, now."

"Aye, Lady Jane," says Sharpe. "Now there's a lass."

Harper says nothing. He has learned long ago not to form opinions of Sharpe's women, or at least never to give them voice, and he has held to that. Sharpe does not ask for advice; he only asks for an ear, and that Harper can provide. He cares little for Sharpe's stories, so foreign are they to him, but there is no one else to listen, and no one else to care.

"Go to sleep, Pat," says Sharpe. He reaches fumblingly across the small space that separates them, and knocks Harper on the shoulder. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Harper grins, and pushes Sharpe's hand away. "Is this before or after morning prayers?"

"After, I should think," Sharpe whispers. "Everyone feels better after a good shout."

Harper doubts it, but closes his eyes anyway. His eyelids present him with a picture of Ramona at camp, at home, but the sound of Sharpe's breathing ruins the whole effect.

* * *

Harper doesn't remember sleeping, but he wakes abruptly to the beat of a drum-- something, as a rifleman, he doesn't think he will ever get used to. Most of the time he thinks he won't have to, but the rest, he wonders if Sharpe ever thought this through. It's not Harper's job to think, but he suspects Sharpe thinks it's not his either.

"Mornin'," he says, as he sits up. Sharpe is sitting on the edge of his pallet, re-lacing his boots. From the set of his jaw, Harper knows that this morning is not a good one, but at least neither of them is obliged to pretend that it is.

"We're going to be late," says Sharpe, and stands up: he has to stoop low to do it. He tosses Harper his stock. "Better hurry. Wouldn't want to miss the morning slop."

"Or the prayers," adds Harper, and quickly laces his own boots. He thinks the whole thing funny, really: the poor care, the poor training, the poor treatment. And Sharpe wants these men to come to Spain, to fight and probably die. Harper doesn't think they'll get very far with such men, but it's no concern of his-- that is how he excuses his apathy. He is only a private here, and privates are interested in nothing but their own survival.

He has a hard time remembering that, sometimes.

His stock is around his neck before the tent flap falls shut. He wouldn't want anyone to see him slouching; it's not something he's done in years.

* * *

Harper rolls over again, and lets out a long, slow breath. The night sky is dotted with stars, stars he remembers from Spain, but only he can see them as they are now. Ramona would not be looking, and Sharpe is asleep where he stopped, where he sat down and gave up for the night.

Harper covers his eyes. He can hear Sharpe breathing, but this time there is no image to be ruined. There is only the lonely English countryside around him, and the darkness conjures no images.

* * *

Harper wakes up to a boot in the side, but it's Sharpe's, this time, not Lynch's. He opens his eyes expecting light, but is instead greeted by the same dark sky.

"Sleep well, did ye, Pat?" asks Sharpe.

Harper sits up. He has a crick in his neck, and he can only very faintly see Sharpe's outline. He seems far away, but maybe it's only because Harper is on the ground. "Well," he says, "it's not my comfy army bed, but it'll do."

There's a smile in Sharpe's voice. "Come on, then. If you get your arse up now, we might be able to make it back in time to get you a proper bed."

"God love you, sir," says Harper, squinting through the dark, "but if you want to get moving, I think you'll have to carry me."

Sharpe laughs-- a real, barking laugh, like he'd forgotten how to do it. "No," he says, and sits down again. He pats Harper's knee, and Harper jumps at the touch. "I think we'd best wait till you're ready."

Harper grins, and already his eyes are beginning to adjust to the light.

* * *

Harper rolls over, and Sharpe says, "Watch where you're going, Pat," and it takes him a few seconds to connect the name with himself. Sharpe's voice is right close in his ear, and when Harper turns his head, he realises that it's Sharpe's mouth by his ear, and Harper stares at the ceiling.

"I didn't say I was getting us a big bed," says Sharpe. He's propped himself up on his elbows, facing Harper, and he badly needs a wash and a shave. It must be a tiny bed, Harper thinks, because he's been breathing plaster dust all night, and Sharpe's side is pressed close against his.

"You might'a gone to your own room, sir," Harper says, little more than a whisper; his voice has not yet woken, and the strain of the past many days has gone to his throat.

"I might have, too," Sharpe agrees, and Harper waits, but Sharpe just bows his head, touching his forehead to the lumpy pillow.

Harper sits up, and puts one hand on Sharpe's back. "Come along, sir. You don't want to be late for your moment of glory."

Sharpe looks up at him, his eyes bright, and for the first time in days Harper sees only Sharpe, unsuspecting as he is-- and Harper can't blame him, for any of it.

"No, indeed," says Sharpe. "Justice don't wait for anyone," and he gets out of bed.

Harper thinks about going back to sleep, but follows him out anyway.

 


End file.
